Page 55 of Love at First Sight

‘What?’ he asks.

‘No, nothing.’

‘You seem surprised I just said that.’

‘Because I am surprised, I suppose. Emotional intelligence in—’

‘Don’t say men,’ Cal warns. ‘Do not say most men don’t have emotional intelligence.’

I press my mouth into a firm line.

‘Thank you,’ he says, noticing that I am not about to make the conversation any worse. ‘I’d hate to have to give my famous TED Talk on how toxic feminism putting men down to the extent where we feel disempowered and useless will eventually give way to a rise in incels and Andrew Tate fanatics.’

‘You’ve given this thought.’

‘Of course I have,’ he replies. ‘You want Henry to grow up to be loving and kind and thoughtful, right? Well then, he has to be loved, treated with kindness and told he’s thoughtful.’

From the back Henry exclaims, ‘I am thoughtful!’

‘Yes you are,’ I agree, reaching back to grab his foot and give it a squeeze. To Cal I say, ‘Well. I accept what you’re getting at. Consider me schooled.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he replies, satisfied.

It gets dark at about nine, and with it Henry nods off. Poor love, he’s done very well, considering we’re now into our fifth hour in the car. Bloody traffic. We stopped once, for a wee and a leg stretch, but aside from that we truck on, crawling in the traffic. Our snacks have long gone, the radio plays Friday Night Bangers for us. And then my phone rings.

‘Oh, shit,’ I say, looking at the screen. ‘It’s my dad.’

Cal raises an eyebrow. ‘First time since the fight?’

‘Yeah. I should get it. I didn’t think …’

But I can’t finish the sentence. I’m shaking! I’m actually shaking.

Cal leans over and turns the music off. ‘I’ll try not to listen.’

I’m aware of the heaviness in my chest. A daughter shouldn’t feel like this when her dad rings, it’s not right. I hate it. I decline the call.

‘Maybe I’ll call him back later,’ I say to Cal. ‘When I’ve had time to prepare.’

Cal nods. ‘Fair enough.’ But then the phone rings again. Cal looks down and sees Dad’s photo on the screen, his name flashing. ‘He must really want to talk,’ he says, and so this time I answer.

‘Hi, Dad,’ I say, and whatever he’s about to say is dwarfed by an almighty sob, a wail so piercing it gives me goosebumps. ‘Dad?’ I repeat, but I’d be surprised if he can hear me over the noises he’s making. ‘Dad!’

‘Oh, Jessie,’ he says, in between cries, but he doesn’t qualify that with anything, simply carries on crying. He’s so distraught it makes me think somebody has died. But who? Mum, maybe?

‘Dad,’ I say again, after a minute. ‘Dad! Breathe!’ I’m almost shouting, and it makes me sound mean. I glance back at Henry, who thankfully hasn’t woken up. ‘Dad,’ I whisper. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Jessie,’ he says. ‘She’s gone. Simone. She’s left me.’

I am stunned, and so shocked I realise I’m holding my breath.

‘What?’ I exclaim. ‘Why? What happened?’

‘It’s that saxophonist. The one with the shirts. I always knew he fancied her, but I never for one moment thought she fancied him back! They’ve eloped to bloody Morocco together. True love, apparently. Nothing to do with the big inheritance he’s just come into, I’m sure.’

I don’t know what to say. Did Dad always know Simone’s a gold digger? My heart aches for him. Surely he doesn’t think so little of himself that he’d be with a woman in spite of the fact she’s with him mostly for his wallet.

‘Dad,’ I say. ‘This is spectacularly awful. I am so, so sorry. What can I do?’

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